


these, our bodies

by smallhorizons



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bottom Castiel, Bottom!Cas, Crying, Crying During Sex, First Time, M/M, oh the emotions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-08
Updated: 2013-11-08
Packaged: 2017-12-31 20:34:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1036092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smallhorizons/pseuds/smallhorizons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean and Castiel's first time having sex totally doesn't include them crying like babies.</p><p>Crossposted from Tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	these, our bodies

Dean doesn’t entirely realize what he’s doing until he’s buried inside Cas, one hand tracing the curve of Cas’s lean, powerful thigh as he hoists it over his shoulder, the other cupping the sharp angle of Cas’s cheek. And then it hits him, all of a sudden, what’s happening, realizes,  _fuck_ , he’s got Cas beneath him, breath hitching, eyes wide and pupils blown, pink blush following the contours of his cheekbones down to his chest—he’s, he’s having sex  _with Cas_ , his angel, who’s so terribly fucking human now, and his chest crumples and is pierced with an ache that resounds all the way down to his bones. His throat seizes. Cas.  _Cas_. Cas, here, with him,  _in bed_ , Cas vulnerable and flawed and human and  _perfect_ beneath him, and before he knows what’s happening there are tears in his eyes and he’s crying,  _crying_ , like a fucking baby.

“Dean,” Cas says, “ _Dean_ ,” and then Cas’s lips are on his, soft, chapped—always _chapped_ , Dean needs to lecture him on the importance of chapstick—and Dean can’t fucking breathe.

“Cas,” he says. He presses his lips against Cas’s once, twice more, close-mouthed kisses, and manages a strained chuckle. “Sorry. Sorry. Guess this, uh—fuck. Gimme a moment.”

He’s still inside Cas, and when he shifts his weight to brush at his eyes Cas whimpers, a high-pitched mewl that deepens into his signature smoke-tinged groan. “Fuck,” Dean says, and he kisses Cas again, because he can, and then again. “Fuck, you’re perfect, Cas. I—shit, I shouldn’t be crying, I’m sorry—”

But Cas cups his face with both hands, thumbs brushing across the arc of his cheekbones, and when Dean can look him properly he notices that Cas’s eyes are red-rimmed, his cheeks are wet, and the small smile he gives Dean quavers. “Don’t,” he says. “You don’t have to apologize. You—Dean, you’re everything, you’re—you—”

And then they’re both crying like a couple of fucking saps, foreheads pressed together, lips just ever so faintly brushing, breath passing forth from one to the other, until Dean feels like he can actually talk without blubbering over his own words.

“Look at us, huh,” Dean says, wrecked, like all his sobbing is caught in his throat, and he smiles, because it’s funny, it is, the way neither of them can stop crying. “Jesus. Could we be any more pathetic?” But he smiles broader and he’s rewarded by the way Cas’s eyes crinkle at the corners and he chuckles, just a little, that soft huff of amusement that always seems to set Dean’s insides aglow with the warm cast of a fireplace and a warm body huddled up next to his.

“Maybe a little,” Cas says, and he brushes his nose against Dean’s ever-so-gently, little Eskimo kisses, eyes wet and red and crinkled at the corners, and Dean’s sure he doesn’t look any better, pink-faced from the crying, tears drying in blotchy streaks on his face, but, god, it doesn’t get any better than this—it can’t possibly get any better than this.


End file.
